


Go Forth And Hunt

by DarthGarou



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Terrifying Tolkien Week, a lot of blood, i guess that's all, mentions of gore, nightmarish landscapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 05:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthGarou/pseuds/DarthGarou
Summary: One night, Celegorm dreams of a hunt.





	Go Forth And Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Third day of Terrifying Tolkien week is here, now with "wild hunt."

Tyelkormo has always been a light and restless sleeper. He never took to sleeping for a long time uninterrupted, either, preferring to adopt the habits of beasts of prey that slept only a while at a time with one eye open and their ear to the ground.

But tonight, a deep sleep has claimed him and he keeps tossing in his bed, his body desperately trying to wake him up.

He opens his eyes,  _ finally _ , but soon realises he is trapped within a dream.

A dark forest looms not far away, its trees old and spiteful, gnawing at the soil with gnarled roots and pointing thorned branches at him in silent accusations. Their bark is not black; it seems devoid of any colour instead, an abyssal kind of lightlessness sucking out what little starlight creeps through the treetops.

They whisper as the wind, which Tyelkormo can’t feel, rocks them, in a tongue unheard in the forests of Oromë or any other place within the confines of Arda. Malice drips from their branches like thick cobwebs, shadows shift at the treeline only to disappear once Tyelkormo tries to focus on them.

Heaviness settles in his gut as something cold runs its finger along his spine.

Tyelkormo looks over his shoulder to find no one there. The brittle leaves cackle in the phantom wind, a mocking echo of laughter. Branches point their prickly fingers at him. The woods are waiting for Tyelkormo to enter, but he is loath to.

The sky darkens as if in response to his unwillingness, hiding what few stars Tyelkormo could see, thick clouds like heaps of ash spreading above the forest low enough for Tyelkormo to wrinkle his nose at the burnt smell.

He turns to leave the forest behind.

And to find a tall and all too familiar figure standing before him, adorned with bones of those it has hunted and marked with their blood. 

“Oromë?” Tyelkormo asks.

“There is no turning back,” the figure says with a tinge of regret in its bellowing voice. It points towards the forest with a hand decorated with entrails. “Go forth and hunt.”

Tyelkormo looks at the forest again, the question of what he is supposed to hunt burning on his tongue, but then he sees it: a spot of brilliance amidst an all-consuming darkness, deep behind the malicious trees and retreating deeper still, several other figures flickering in and out of focus disappearing into the forest.

Stirred into pursuit, Tyelkormo growls. The greater the competition, the more eager Tyelkormo feels to get his hands on the quarry, the better hunter he becomes. Even in his dreams, it seems.

He takes off, his steps light enough to not even rustle in the grass. There is no weapon at his disposal, nor beasts he could call to his aid, and he speeds through the branches reaching out to him, breaking them from the trees as he does.

There is noise coming from the other pursuers and he follows it to catch up. In spite of the darkness, he can make out more of their features once he gets closer, though they still seem washed out and faded, blurred and shifting, phantoms more than anything else. 

Leading the pursuit is a phantom that burns, bright enough to illuminate the grim woods and darken their shadows into a blackness thick enough to make Tyelkormo avoid it. The darkness whispers in Tyelkormo’s ears, stalking behind the brilliance, growing and swelling into shapes that reach out to him, grope him, seep into his skin.

Two more phantoms are flying at its heel, a tall one clad in auburn hair and a wailing one whose lamentations dance amid the laughing trees. Another phantom latches onto Tyelkormo himself, less brilliant than the one in the lead, but painfully familiar, familiar enough for Tyelkormo to know he has its name on his tongue even though he has no idea what it might be.

Three more phantoms travel behind him, two of them identical and one fuming with anger but sharpened with fierce determination. With a growl, Tyelkormo speeds up.

The leaves above them cackle and branches descend upon the bright phantom in the lead like hungry crows upon a wounded deer - stabbing and grabbing and wrapping around Tyelkormo’s ankles. 

When he falls, he lands in warm blood.

It’s flooding the forest floor, running down the abyssal bark, dripping from the branches, thick like honey, and the trees howl with sickening laughter as Tyelkormo struggles to stand up and catch up. 

He’s covered in the blood, as are the other pursuers, but instead of the familiar exhilaration, he feels sick and unclean and disgusted. As hastily as he can, he wades through the blood that has risen up to his knees, grabbing at the trees and branches for support - but the treacherous branches snap ere he touches them, sending him face-first into the hot blood.

Tyelkormo snarls like a wounded beast and spits the blood out as he emerges, and pushes himself to follow the rest of the blood-stained phantoms. 

The blood subsides, but still it trickles down Tyelkormo’s face and stains his hair a deep crimson as he pursues the distant radiance through the looming shadows. He feels them snake up around his legs and to his torso and arms, just a whisper of weight added.

For some reason, he doubts they will get any lighter.

Something ahead explodes with warmth and light, and the forest screams in agony as it is set on fire. Tyelkormo speeds up, dodging the burning branches that threaten to impale him in their fall, his head spinning from the smoke and ash he has to breathe.

But he prevails, and soon the fire dances around him no more. There are six other phantoms left now and for a reason yet unclear, Tyelkormo’s gut twists and he has to fight the urge to retch and vomit.

A faint smell of burnt flesh stings his nose in mockery. The trees swell with their animosity, climbing taller, their branches snapping over Tyelkormo’s face, their thorns bigger and sharper, thickets gathering at the feet of their trunks.

Tyelkormo tears through the unyielding shrubs with his bare hands, caring little for the gashes and shred skin. Oromë’s - or were they? - words still echoed in his mind.  _ There is no turning back. _

The brilliant phantom seems to have overcome the rest of them, drawing ever closer to their radiant quarry, and Tyelkormo picks up his pace, in complete disregard for his aching body covered in blood, though most of it not his own.

Whose blood was he drowning in, anyway?

But then the leading phantom explodes with a haunting shriek that hollows out Tyelkormo’s bones, burning up and consuming itself in a flash of white light that, for the briefest moment, burns away the shadows of the forest. 

The darkness that follows swallows the remaining five phantoms and Tyelkormo like a yawning beast.

Yet one phantom still remains by his side and together, they inch towards the radiance in the distance, the shadows stuck on Tyelkormo’s skin growing heavier with each step he takes towards the light. The more he slows down, the more impatient his ethereal companion gets, pointing towards the light with sharp, urgent gestures, its commanding presence forcing Tyelkormo to keep going further and further.

Tyelkormo calls for Huan in his thoughts, even though he doubts the hound will ever answer again.

Laughter echoes through the forest and Tyelkormo turns to seek the sound, descrying yet another phantom, this time of surpassing grace and glowing with the light of the dawn. Tyelkormo bolts after it like a hound after a wounded beast, the thought of waking up too enticing to keep him on his path.

But this phantom dances around him, leading him through thorns and sharp rocks and concealed rivers, taunting him with its graceful dance across the forest floor.

Just as Tyelkormo comes close enough to touch it, the glowing phantom darts away and out of his reach, laughing as it flies away in the direction of his brilliant quarry. His companion radiates disapproval and contempt, but once again, it drags Tyelkormo forward, unrelenting and tenacious.

_ There is no turning back _ .

Tyelkormo follows out of habit alone, devoid of anything other than a desire for the hunt, or  his life the dream to end. 

Suddenly, the clouds above the forest part to reveal a wheel of shining silver that bathes the grim trees in the cleansing light of hope. Something is lifted off Tyelkormo’s shoulders and his spirit soars high, undaunted by the crooked trees now that their malice has been stayed.

The phantom by his side seems almost pleased.

Yet the respite ends and screams of anguish fill the forest. Black clouds draw their curtain over the sky, cutting off the silver light and plunging the forest into a suffocating darkness. Blood rains from the sky, hot enough to burn Tyelkormo’s skin and evaporate off the ground where it lands, filling the woods with the rank of filthy and slow death of too many.

It’s nothing like a clean kill at the end of a hunt, and Tyelkormo wonders how much longer he will have to go on.

He runs after his flickering companion, avoiding the scorching rain and the vindictive jabs of sharp branches, pressing hands over his ears to silence the raging sea of anguished voices rising in tumult around him.

Every tree seems to be shrieking, keening or wailing, and Tyelkormo finds himself screaming just for the sake of drowning out the voices in the trunks. 

They flee from the turmoil, but not too far from it, a glimmering phantom appears once again, this time accompanied by the radiance of their quarry - his quarry, Tyelkormo reminds himself, and he lets the fire burn hot in his veins as he tears through the forest like a hulking boar.

He charges at the glimmering phantom with all he has left, crying out with enough force to shake the ground.

_ There is no turning back _ .

But the radiance is gone and Tyelkormo launches himself at the phantom - not the same that played with him earlier, but so painfully similar that it doesn’t really matter - with the force of his momentum alone.

The glimmer dissipates into a darkness and a thick branch rams itself through his stomach.

He awakes gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. After sitting up and resting his feet by the side of his bed, brushing one against Huan who lifts his head and rests it on Tyelkormo’s thigh, he lets out a deep breath.

Burying his fingers into Huan’s thick fur, he stares out of the window. It’s not the first time he had restless dreams, but until now, the unease of the dream always faded come his awakening. 

This time, it sticks to his skin like a coating of sweat that can’t be washed off. But he gives up trying to decipher a dream such as this, believing it would unravel at the right time, should it be important.

And it does, but a few days later. As the last words of his father’s Oath leave his mouth and something wraps around his spirit, he recalls the dream and all its dreadful foreshadowing. His eyes dart to Ambarussa, going back and forth between the twins as they doom themselves with the same words Tyelkormo has.

He clenches his teeth. The words of the one that could have been Oromë echo through his mind once again.

_ There is no turning back. Go forth and hunt. _

And even though he knows to what end this hunt shall lead him, Tyelkormo does. This time, at least, he will be well armed.


End file.
